Garden Art Meets Academic Prose

A climbing rose has appeared in my garden, likely planted by the garden gnomes, since I have no recollection of planting it, and I was thinking how grand it would be to have a sturdy trellis for it to climb. I have some scraps of cedar wood that would make a fine trellis, if I ever took the initiative to put them together. They have been under my deck for nearly three years, however, because I dislike any project involving tools that do not go into dirt, as well as anything requiring nails and screws.

Fortunately, as I was walking around the neighborhood one Sunday evening, I discovered this deck railing on someone's trash pile. I considered returning home for my car, but I feared that another scavenger might happen along and realize its value, so I hoisted the thing onto my shoulder and made my way back home, looking like some bizarre performance artist.

Which made me wonder...since my carbon offset scheme...er...program went nowhere, perhaps I could apply for an artist's grant. I'll call it a sculpture, and use words like "oevre," "verticality," "ontological" "juxtapose," and "paradigm" in my artist's statement.

So what do you think of my piece? (Real artists just say "piece," which is short for "piece of scrap lumber I found on the side of the road." If you work in academia you know these things.) Is it a commentary on bourgeoisie striving, symbolized by a ladder leading nowhere? Or a subtle evocation of Jacob's ladder, probing the man-God dialectic in ancient Hebrew thought? (I gotta stop--this is like shooting fish in a barrel. I knew I should have finished grad school!)

Dividing and Deadheading

Tuesday was the kind of day that comes all to infrequently in July, and even more infrequently when I have an afternoon off--cloudy and cool, with temperatures in the 70s all day. I spent the first hour or so finishing the last Harry Potter novel. After I closed the book, I needed to work off the nervous energy from vicariously fighting Voldemort and reflect on what had happened to Harry, (and that's all I'm telling you!) so I went under the house for my tools.

The first project was to divide a clump of bearded irises. This is a satisfying task because it gives me something to do in the middle of summer when there's nothing else to plant or transplant. Plus, like all gardeners, I like the idea of getting free plants and this is a way to do it without risking arrest and prosecution.

The irises in question were planted by garden gnomes (Gernumbli gardensi) a couple of years ago. Teresa didn't plant them and I don't remember planting them, so the only plausible explanation is that they are the work of gnomes. (I'm indebted to Xenophilius Lovegood for supplying the scientific name of garden gnomes, a species that has been largely ignored by the scientific establishment.)

I uprooted the entire clump, pulled apart the rhizomes, replanted them with the top of the rhizome at the soil's surface, and clipped the leaves back to about 6 inches. Next spring, the entire back of the Birdbath Bed will be sporting tall, graceful yellow irises. At least I think they're yellow. If purple or white irises bloom there next year, you'll know that the gnomes switched them.

Next it was a short hop across the yard to weed the Bottomlands. This is the moniker I gave to the bed formerly known by the unwieldy name of "the bed next to Dusty's yard." The Bottomlands consist of a hodgepodge of plants that I acquired without any definite plan of where they would go. It functions as a holding pen for plants waiting for me to find a permanent home; I expect that as the years go by, the Bottomlands will be the permanent home for many of them, if for no other reason than sheer indolence on my part.

Finally, it was time to deadhead the butterfly bushes. This is the first year I've troubled myself with deadheading, and it does seem to increase the number of blooms. Not that I've kept any sort of records, mind you. Even if it makes no difference, deadheading butterfly bushes is an easy and painless way to get a sense of accomplishment, and it provides a plausible excuse as to why you just can't attend some dreadful social event to which you've been invited. "Sorry," you say, "I'd love to, but I absolutely have to deadhead my butterfly bushes this Saturday." As long as they aren't gardeners, it sounds like work--and we're not going to tell them otherwise, are we?.

Oh, come on. Don't tell me you've never concocted some elaborate excuse just so you could stay home and dig in the dirt!

Garden Gnomes

Gnomes inhabit every garden. Most Muggles have never seen one, and for that reason, believe that they exist only in folklore, but if you have a garden, you have gnomes.

My gnomes amuse themselves by moving my tools. (I think my gardening disturbs them, because they usually do this the night after I have been out working in the flowerbeds.) Somehow they gain access to the laundry room and remove my trowel and gloves from their proper shelf, take them outside, and leave them in the flowerbed where I had been working. On other occasions, they take the pitchfork from under the house and drag it all the way to the compost pile, where I find it the next morning.

During the winter, the gnomes rearrange dormant plants. The gardener, of course, does not notice anything amiss until spring, when, say, a Solomon's Seal sprouts in the front shade bed, or a trio of phlox appears near the back fence. The gnomes clearly know a bit about gardening, because they invariably plant things in just the spot that I had been considering for that very type of plant the summer before. This is a great help and a pleasant surprise, and makes up for their cavalier attitude toward gardening tools.

Why the skepticism about gnomes? It would seem obvious to any sensible person that such mischief could only be the work of these impish garden-dwellers, but some folks stubbornly ignore the obvious when it comes to the subject of gnomes. (They say they've never seen one. Well, how many of them have ever seen Tokyo?)

My wife, an otherwise well-educated, erudite, and rational individual, is firmly convinced that gnomes are not real, despite the incontrovertible proof in our own garden. When confronted with such iron-clad evidence for their existence, she dismisses the misplaced tools and moved plants with a theory that is so preposterous and outlandish that I'll not embarrass her by publishing it here.

Surprisingly, gnomes are not difficult to photograph...once you find them. Like moths, they employ a variety of camouflage techniques to conceal themselves from gardeners, cats, and children. The photo above illustrates a typical method of mimicry: the gnome hangs on a viburnum twig and to the casual observer, is indistinguishable from the actual bud on the opposite side. Upon closer observation of his hat, however, it becomes clear which one is the actual gnome.